


don't go sharing your devotion (lay all your love on me)

by theoreticlove



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Everyone Ends Up Getting Along, F/M, Family Reunion, Fourth Age, Fëanor's Reembodiment Was An Accident, Kissing, Reunion, Romance, So much kissing, There's a Little Galadriel Bashing, Wedding, sort of angst with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:22:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22200070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticlove/pseuds/theoreticlove
Summary: fëanor is reembodied, completely accidentally, on nerdanel's wedding day. to another man.
Relationships: Anairë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë/Caranthir's Wife, Caranthir | Morifinwë/Original Female Character(s), Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel
Comments: 24
Kudos: 105





	don't go sharing your devotion (lay all your love on me)

“You could not possibly have lost your temper at a worse time,” said Manwë with a frown. “Now he is off gallivanting through Aman, and who knows now what will happen to that poor, poor woman?”

“It was not my fault,” Námo protested.

“Are you not Guardian of the Dead? Was it not your job to ensure that he would not return to the lands of the living until the End was at hand?”

“Yes. However, not even you could have withstood the incessant, incessant commentary! Day in, day out, Námo this, Námo that, you should do this, you should do that. Imagine someone living in your house for thousands of years and constantly either mocking you or making suggestions that you cannot take, because to take them will be to admit he has a point, and it will only inflate his ego and make his mocking worse. It- he is infuriating!”

“He cannot possibly have been that bad.”

“You say that, but have you tried dealing with him for over seven thousand years? He was awful! A terror! A menace! Why don’t you see how it feels! You know, I don’t even care about what comes next. I am simply glad to finally have some blessed peace and quiet in my Halls!”

Manwë Sulimo let out a sigh, and assumed a corporeal form simply so that he could pinch the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. 

“Let us just pray,” he began, “that the One has foreseen this and that all will go according to his plan.”

***

Curufinwë Fëanáro woke for the first time in over seven thousand years to a sky lit up in hues of orange and yellow. A bright, golden orb- the sun, he realised, dimmed every second as it disappeared over the horizon, leaving but a trail a bright colour in its wake. The trees he spied in the distance looked almost set alight by the dying rays of the light shining through their branches.

Tentatively, he moved his hand. The grass, green and cold against his hand, tickled the sides of his fingers. He plucked one of the blades out of the ground, rubbing it against his index and thumb to feel the texture. 

He had not thought he would miss grass, of all things, but the feeling of it bending under the force of his fingers brought tears to his eyes. 

After a bit, he rose to his feet. His knees wobbled slightly, buckling with every step he took until he pressed a hand against the first tree he reached in an attempt to steady himself. 

“You know full well how to walk,” he told himself, “you can do this.”

His next step was still slightly awkward, but within a few minutes of near tumbles and potential face-plants, he was confident in his walking ability once more. 

In the distance he saw Tirion, the white buildings glowing golden in the sun-set. Even from a distance, it was simultaneously fairer and more beautiful than he could possibly have imagined and the exact same as he had remembered. The buildings had expanded and there were certainly more of them, but the style in which they were constructed was still decisively Noldorin, from what he could tell in the distance. 

Having only just relearned how to walk, naturally, he began to run towards the city. He did not care for how terrible his welcome might be, if he were to have any welcome at all. He simply wanted to see everything. He wanted to see any influences of other cultures on the arts of the Noldor, wanted to see their advancements, wanted to learn of the shaping of their language after so long- surely it had evolved, new words added, definitions changed. 

Yet as soon as he reached the city, his desire to explore it was overrun by another: he wanted now, more than anything, to see his sons. To see his wife. To see his family in the city where they had lived for so long. 

He did not know where his sons or his wife were residing. Perhaps their house of old, perhaps Formenos, perhaps some entirely new location that he himself would know nothing about. 

Arafinwë would know- High King of the Noldor in Tirion. Fëanáro’s little brother was bound to be in the city. Confident that he had remembered someone who would doubtless be a good source of information for him, he headed towards the palace.

He only stopped when he realised that the center of Tirion, including the downtown market that had always been so busy, filled with merchants and the scent of roasting meat and delicious spices when he had lived there, was almost entirely empty. 

“Where is everyone?” He wondered aloud as he looked around him. Most houses were empty, the streets- cobblestone, laid by hand, just as he had remembered- were devoid of people. 

He realised suddenly that it was nearly dark and he was all alone in a seemingly deserted city. 

Then, he heard the faint sound of music. It was just audible enough for him to tell what direction it was coming from, and immediately he began to walk in the direction of the sound, hoping to find civilisation, someone who knew where his family was and, perhaps, something to drink. 

The first and last items on his list were achieved with about five seconds between them. The music had gotten louder and louder until he approached a large clearing, just outside the border of the city. It was a testament to how loud the Noldor could play that he had been able to hear the music so close to the middle of the city. 

The clearing was strung up with lights, a delightful shade of yellow that nearly matched some of the lights caused by the sun-set of the night (though it was practically dark by this point- the sun just a tiny line of blinding light on the horizon). What had to be hundreds of people walked around, dancing and smiling as they laughed and talked. There seemed to be some commotion near the front of the clearing, where he could see the tip of a large tent, but the sea of people blocked his exact view. 

“Welcome!” cried a stranger that Fëanáro did not know. “You must be Curufinwë Atarinkë- to be quite honest I wasn’t sure that you were going to come! Would you care for a drink?”

“Yes,” Fëanáro said tentatively. “And may I ask who you are?” 

“Call me Canyo! I am Weo’s third cousin twice removed.”

“Ah,” said Fëanáro, who did not know who Weo was and did not particularly care. His hand wrapped around the cup presented to him and he took a quick sip marvelling at the taste- the bright explosion of flavour, the sweetness of the fruit. Mango, if he had to place it. He had not had a mango since he was a small child. It was Ñolofinwë’s favourite fruit. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure! Now, I presume you want to make your way to the front of the crowd! I won’t keep you!” Canyo said, and disappeared into the crowd. 

Fëanáro tipped the rest of his drink down his throat and did rather the same. 

He recognised a few of the Noldor, but all those who made eye contact with him seemed simply to not recognise him. Perhaps, like Canyo, they thought he was his son. At least, he thought, he could be reassured that no one would try to make him pay for his crimes at the present time. 

Eventually, he came to near the front of the crowd and saw that there had been a great circle of space made in it, with many couples dancing together in front of the tent. A wedding, he recognised, much like his own in its traditional dances. The same song, even. 

He longed then to see his wife. Nerdanel, the love of his life, his greatest partner. He missed her, so terribly sometimes that even when he had been in his body-less form he had still felt the pang of it in his chest, the ache of it in his soul. 

He missed her quick wit, the way she always knew what to say to catch him off guard and render him speechless. He missed her smile, the one that lit up her face, the one she only wore when she was really, truly, undeniably happy. He missed her laugh, a bright thing that others had sometimes called ugly but that Fëanáro could not place as anything other than the most beautiful sound in the world. He missed the sound of her voice, he missed waking up to her hair in his face in the mornings, he missed watching her as she worked, he missed her so badly he hated himself. He hated himself for messing it up so badly. 

Perhaps she was here- there certainly seemed to be enough people to warrant her potential attendance. 

He spotted, out of the corner of his eye, a glint of red hair in a corner near him. He looked again, but it was too tall to be Nerdanel. A closer look showed that it was, however, her eldest son. 

A smile spread onto Fëanáro’s face as he made his way over to his son. He noticed then that several members of his family were, in fact, in attendance, with several of the couples being on the dance-floor, if it could be called that. 

“Nelyo,” he said, just loud enough to be heard over the combined noise of people talking loudly and music being played over them. His son, Kanafinwë, was playing with a smile that appeared slightly devilish but mostly happy with the rest of the band. 

“Curvo, I know you have issues with this wedding as a whole and believe me, so do the rest of us, but now is not the time to be voicing them. Particularly not to me. I am trying to make eye contact with Maglor in an attempt to get him to stop playing mother and father’s wedding songs on purpose,” said Maitimo, who did not spare a glance to Fëanáro, who was beginning to be irritated by people thinking he was Curufinwë. Well, he was Curufinwë. Just not _that_ Curufinwë. 

He did wonder why that Curufinwë, and apparently all his brothers, took issue with a wedding. And why Makalaurë called Maglor was purposely playing his parents’ wedding songs at what was definitely (judging by the fact that he himself was not the one getting married) not his parents’ wedding. 

“Nelyafinwë,” he said, slightly more intensely, “what is going on?”

Maitimo turned, clearly about to pronounce some dry comment, but he took a look into the spark of his father’s eyes and then, for reasons Fëanáro did not know, went completely white. 

“Father?” He asked, eyes wide.

“The very one. Now, why do you all take issue with this wedding, and why is Kanafinwë playing the same songs as the ones played at _my_ wedding? And sit down, you look pale.”

Maitimo did not sit down. Rather, he swallowed, and suddenly looked unbearably nervous. 

“Well, you see… I mean, with the way you raised us you could hardly expect us to be okay with it… and we really take issue with it because of this literal exact situation having been a possibility, and well, you see, it’s just that the bride is none other than… er…”

“Out with it, Nelyo. Now.”

“The bride may or may not already be married. To you. That is, er, this is mother’s wedding. Not to you. Mother is married to you but this is not her wedding to you because you are supposed to be permanently dead and, well, er, this is her wedding to not-you.”

Fëanáro blinked. 

“Oh,” he said. “Well, I do take issue with that.”

“We thought you might. Curvo did not even come, in your name, you see, so I thought when I heard your voice it was him, come to crash the wedding and ensure that while the ceremony was completed, and it was, in fact, about an hour ago, the marriage remained… unconsummated, if you will. Which it still is. There are a few dances left, I believe.”

“I see. Well, I shall have to do something about that.” 

Maitimo nodded.

“Please do. It’s not that we don’t like Weo- he is a kind person, but I think I speak for all my brothers and my nephew when I say we would much rather have you.”

“I greatly appreciate it. And… I am very glad to see you, Nelyo.” He placed a hand on Maitimo’s shoulder, and his eldest son pulled him into a hug. Maitimo clung to him, and gently Fëanáro kissed his temple. 

“Now, are all your brothers here? Save Curvo, I mean.”

“All except him and Moryo, yes. Moryo was here for the first bit, the vows and all that, but he left with his wife because it was getting late and the baby needed to be put to bed.”

“The baby?” The prospect of another grandchild filled him immediately with the greatest joy. 

“The dear is barely three months old.”

“How wonderful!”

“Yes, and Moryo is over the moon with the joy of fatherhood. You should see him- he is never not talking about his ‘darling little baby, the cutest in the whole wide world’.”

“I am so happy for him. You must tell him I love him dearly, and that I wish him all the joy of the experiences of fatherhood, and all my best wishes and love to his wife and child.”

“Will you not tell him yourself?”

“Of course I would love nothing more, but I suppose that if your mother decides she does not want me back, and it is after all her final decision, I will be returning to the Halls and will not be able to.”

“Do you give up hope so quickly?”

“No! I am simply preparing for the possibility. Now, tell me, is Moryo the only one of your brothers to have wed since I last saw you?”

“No; Celegorm is married, or as close as he will get to it, though I will not tell you who, exactly, has captured his heart, for I do not wish to invoke your wrath on purpose! But know he is happy. The rest of us, however, have yet to find spouses.”

“You will fall in love someday, yonya.”

“I suppose. Although, I must admit, I have never particularly yearned for a husband.”

If Fëanáro was surprised by his son’s will for a husband rather than a wife, he said nothing. In the end he did not care. It was Maitimo’s life and he was free, after all, to fall in love with whomever he pleased. And the same, he thought, for Tyelkormo, though he wondered and worried about why he himself should be displeased with Tyelkormo’s choice of partner. 

“Well, when you do finally fall in love, as I like to think you will, make sure he treats you well, or I will be having words with him and perhaps they will not stay words.”

“Did you just threaten violence against a husband I do not yet have?”

“Only because you are my son and I love you,” Fëanáro replied, nodding.

“I love you too, atto.”

“It was… it is a great pleasure to know that in this life you do seem happy. You and all your brothers. If this doesn’t work out, and your mother does decide to fully marry this Weo man, tell your brothers I am sorry that I could not stay longer, and that I love you all very much and hope you will get along well with your step-father, for your mother’s sake.”

“Don’t say that. I- when she sees you, here, alive, surely she will change her mind.”

Fëanáro smiled at him. “Let us hope so.”

Fëanáro turned to leave him then, hoping to find his wife among the crowd. He met instead a girl- a small, pale thing, her cheeks flushed bright red. Her hair was dark, and cropped short, barely going to her chin; was this the new fashion among young people? Her jaw was well defined, her nose small, her lips like a rosebud. Her hand was raised as if she had been about to tap on his shoulder and she broke out into a smile when he made eye contact with her- she seemed to be really very happy to see him, and he struggled to figure out who, exactly, she was. 

“Hello!” She said, sticking out a hand for him to shake. As he did (and noted her firm grip, which he found endeared her to him immediately), she continued, saying: “You must be Curufin! It’s so wonderful to finally meet you; I’m so glad you decided to come! Oh! I forgot to introduce myself,” she blushed. “I’m Rína, Weo’s niece. Would you care to dance?”

“Sure,” he said, as he took in the burst of information, and he let her lead him onto the dance floor that was not quite a floor so much as ground pretending to be a floor. 

“I love your outfit,” she said, and for what may quite likely have been the first time since his rebirth, he looked down at himself. He found he was clad in a bright blue fit, a traditional Noldorin robe, the details of it silver, twinkling faintly under the lights. They were not his chosen colours (he preferred a combination of red and gold, or perhaps purple and gold), but he presumed he looked quite nice. Why Mandos had decided to favour him with colourful garments, he knew not, but he felt something that was suspiciously like gratefulness, not that he would ever admit it. 

“Thank you,” he said. “You look lovely as well.” 

She did look quite pretty- her dress was short and made of lace, a lilac colour that suited her marvelously. The skirt billowed when he spun her, in tune with the music, and she wore a pretty, dark purple eyeshadow that stood out against the pallor of her skin and matched the colour of her dress. 

She blushed as he said it, ducking her head. “Thank you.”

“I admire your attention to detail,” he added as he noticed her nails, in a darker shade of the lilac colour of her dress. “The purple suits you well.” 

“You are very kind,” she replied. 

He smiled gently, and wondered briefly what it would have been like if he and Nerdanel had had a daughter. But he had seven wonderful, brilliant sons, and was more than content with that. 

“I love this song,” he said after a bit, looking over at Makalaurë, who still had a devilish glint in his smile. “It played at my wedding.”

Rína nodded. “It is a beautiful song. And your brother is a very talented musician.”

For a second, Fëanáro was confused- Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë had never been musical creatures for a second in their lives, as far as he knew. He realised immediately after having the thought that Rína believed he was Curufinwë and that the brother in question was Makalaurë, who was indeed talented. 

“He is. Though living with him was quite a pain- he played all hours of the night, often.” 

It was true, though he loved his second son dearly. He recalled all too well the first time an instrument had been brought into their house- Makalaurë had banged on it and tried to play it for days straight, hardly stopping to sleep until he had figured out how to make splendid music with it.

It had been agonizing. 

Rína laughed, dimples showing themselves in her cheeks. “I can hardly imagine; I am an only child.”

“How sad,” he said, though he had long wished for that precise thing. 

“I suppose you must think so, having six brothers!” She said, but smiled, and Fëanáro knew she had taken no offence. “But I am content with being by myself.”

“Have you many cousins?” 

“No- my other uncle is still unmarried. However, after tonight I hope to count myself one of eight cousins.” 

Fëanáro made no reply; he knew not what to say. If his plans went accordingly, she would remain cousin-less. If they went awry, it was not his place to tell her his sons would be glad to have her as a cousin, for he truly did not know if they would be. If Maitimo’s words were true, he would even go so far as to doubt it. 

“I find myself jealous of my uncle,” Rína said quietly, shortly afterwards, as she looked towards the tent, “though I know I should not. I know she makes him happy, and truly I am glad for him.”

Again, Fëanáro did not reply. 

“I have always wanted to fall in love,” she continued. “though love has always evaded me. I was born in the second age- so long ago! and still I have had no great love. When I was a child, I fantasized about one day meeting a handsome stranger, and looking into their eyes and knowing they were the one for me. I liked to think it would be a prince- I heard many stories of the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Finwë-, and he would come and ask me to be his princess, and we would live happily ever after. 

“I dreamed we would return to Aman together- I was born in Arda, shortly after the end of the War of Wrath. We would go together and live in bliss, and I would be reunited with the family I had never known, and I would be happy. I am happy, though, and I have met a great deal of my family- my mother was the only one of her siblings to travel across the sea. But alas! That dream is still but a dream. And I suppose all the princes are taken, and that dream is doomed to go unrealised. 

“But my uncle has found true love, at least. And I believe Lady Nerdanel loves him, too, though my mother- his younger sister, you see, that is how we are related- worried at first that she was still in love with Fëanáro. I think she still does love him- how could anyone stop loving the person who made them experience love for the first time?”

Fëanáro’s heart clenched at that, at the thought that perhaps Nerdanel still loved him, that she had never stopped loving him. It seemed, now that he thought about it, almost impossible, considering all he had done to her. 

He would make it up to her, somehow. He would. He would get her back, and he would prove how much he loved her, and how much he regretted hurting her, and he would make it right.

The song, and therefore the dance, ended, and Rína hand slipped out of Fëanáro’s. Gently, he took it once more. 

“Do not fret, Rína. Your great love will come,” he told her, and though he had only met her, he knew enough of her character to know it would be okay if he began forming a list of all his single sons, nephews and great-nephews. 

The next dance started suddenly, and he was spun around to find himself dancing with his brother’s wife and his former best friend. 

“I did not think you would come, Curufinwë Atarinkë,” said Anairë, drily. Why, he wondered, did everyone so easily believe that he was Curvo? 

“Nor did I,” he replied, which was true. “I did not believe I would ever be required to attend such an event.”

“Yes, I cannot imagine. I wonder what Fëanáro would say.”

“I am sure he would say something along the lines of: ‘why do people keep mistaking me for my son?’.”

Anairë looked at him again, curiously, analysing his face. She gasped suddenly, luckily drawing no attention from the very loud crowd. 

“You are supposed to be dead!” She said.

“I am well aware,” he replied, and spun her around. “It is good to see you, Anairë.”

“Does anyone know you’re here?”

“People keep mistaking me for my son, so no, only you and Nelyo,” he said, and remembered that once, Anairë had been his greatest confidante and that she had always been close friends with Nerdanel, therefore certainly she would know of Weo. “Now, listen, tell me about Weo. What is he like? What does the House of Finwë think of him? I see a great many of you here tonight.”

“Nerdanel is our sister, no matter how dead you are, and an aunt to our children. Of course we all came.”

“I am glad to hear you are all close,” and truly, he was. “Weo, now.”

“He is kind, I suppose,” Anairë began, but she sighed. “Rather boring, in my opinion. Quite the opposite of you. But whatever floats Nerdanel’s boat, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Fëanáro, who did not quite understand the meaning of the sentence. “Boats.”

“You need to catch up on spoken language,” She said with a laugh, smirking at him. 

“I would love nothing more. Except reuniting with my family, of course.”

“How sweet.”

“Thank you, I am indeed very sweet. Now, is Weo from a respectable family?”

Anairë nearly laughed, though he could not tell if she was laughing at him and did not care to have that question answered.

“His sister is great friends with Irimë and, of the three siblings, is the highest elevated in status, mostly because of that friendship. Weo, on the other hand… well, he is no Crown Prince of the Noldor.”

“I see. What does he do for a living? Is he an artist? A smith? A hunter?”

Anairë laughed at the suggestions, shaking her head.

“I shouldn’t laugh, but… Weo studies butterflies for a living.”

Fëanáro let out a surprised laugh. Then, he laughed more, tipping his head back. His shoulders shook. 

“Butterflies?” He said, just to make sure he had heard correctly. 

“Butterflies,” Anairë confirmed, and Fëanáro saw that she was also laughing. 

He had missed his dear friend.

“How noble of him! He must be a pioneer- I have never heard of such a thing.”

This only served to make Anairë laugh harder.

“I believe he is the first to study butterflies- and the only one.”

“How bold of him! To begin research in such a… different field.”

They laughed together a while longer, and Fëanáro realised that he had missed having friends, close friends that he could laugh with, and talk to. His brothers, he believed, would make good friends. He missed them, despite his former loathing of them.

There was a great deal he was missing these days. 

“Is Arafinwë still High King of the Noldor in Tirion?” he asked, wondering for news of his brothers, for some strange reason called love of one’s family. 

“Yes, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“The High King changes every decade. Right now it is Turukano, with Itarille as Crown Princess. But in two years, when the decade ends, the crown will pass to Gil-Galad, whom you have not met but is my grandson. Then, when that decade ends, the crown will pass to Arafinwë, then to Ñolofinwë, then Findekano, then Turukano once more, and so on and so forth.”

“What about Nelyo? Was he not High King?”

“He renounced all claim to it after he was reborn. Said he didn’t want to be High King ever again.”

Fëanáro nodded, and any sentiment of wanting to defend his son’s honour dissipated.

“I cannot blame him. High death rate, that job has.”

“He does still work in politics, but he has been appointed instead Duke of the Isles, and by Isles we mean mostly Tol Eressëa. The isle has a nice population, ever-growing, and they are technically under his rule, though he mostly just handles paperwork and goes to various brunches on Sundays. He is directly under the High King. Or right beside him, if the High King in question is Findekano.”

“Those two have always been thick as thieves.”

“They have always been the best of friends. Almost like you and I once were.”

Fëanáro sighed at the thought of it.

“I wish… I am very sorry for being cruel to you when I found out you loved my brother, for all I put your family through. If I am not being too bold, I would like for us to be close again, like before all of that. I do miss your company.”

“Do you now?”

“Who else would I find to tell me about my wife’s nearly-husband’s social status?”

Anairë laughed. 

“I accept your offer of friendship, Fëanáro. If I were you, I’d offer it to your brothers next.”

“I plan to. I have been unjust in my treatment of them. Though I cannot take it back, I do wish to make up for lost time.”

She smiled at him, the kind of smile that made you feel proud of yourself when it was bestowed upon you, that made warmth glow in your chest.

“That is a very noble sentiment. I am proud of you. I did not know you could be so good a person.”

“It is one of the miracles of being me,” he said, and spun her around so as to not see her roll her eyes at him.

***

“What in Eru’s name…” Ñolofinwë said, as he took in what he saw before him. 

His older brother, laughing with Ñolofinwë’s wife. His older brother, at the wedding of said older brother’s wife to another man. His older brother, alive at long last. Alive.

Ñolofinwë wanted to run to him. He wasn’t sure, however, if he would hug him or punch him square in his laughing face. Both were tempting. 

“I know,” said Maitimo, who had materialised next to him. “Bit of a shock to me, too.”

“Am I dreaming? Is Irmo playing some trick on me?” He inquired, just to make sure. 

“I do not think so, uncle.” 

“Is the end nigh, then?”

“I pray it is not, and father seems to have no inclination to believe that it is.” 

“Ah. Well, in that case, I hope his plan goes accordingly.”

“His plan?”

“I presume he has one- to win Nerdanel back.”

“You know, I really don’t think he does,” Maitimo admitted. “He didn’t even know it was her wedding- he just showed up because that was where the people were.”

“Huh,” said Ñolofinwë, thoroughly surprised. “You’d think someone would have told him.” 

“You’d think someone would have told _us_ he was coming back.”

“You would think,” Ñolofinwë agreed. “Ah, well. I suppose we’ll just see how it will play out.”

There was suddenly a horrible noise, and the duo looked over to see Makalaurë, eyes wide, having played a terribly false note on his instrument, looking right at his father. He recovered admirably well, and played Fëanáro and Nerdanel’s wedding songs with even more intensity. 

Ñolofinwë laughed. 

He watched as Tyelkormo tripped over his own feet after he followed Makalaurë’s line of vision and saw his father. His eyes went wide with shock- for all his connections to the Valar, it was clear he had not known of his father’s rebirth.

He watched as Ambarussa both noticed their father at the same time and promptly walked right into each other. 

He watched as Arafinwë, his dear little brother, spat out his drink at the sight of their older sibling, drawing the attention of Finrod, who seemed to whisper an expletive under his breath, then Angrod and Aegnor, who seemed to simply not process and had to sit down. He watched as Eärwen and the sinda Celeborn both put a hand on one of Galadriel’s shoulders, as if to hold her back, though she seemed more shocked than anything.

Findekano, who had also caught on, seemed to be having a mouthing conversation with Maitimo, which involved several extravagant hand gestures on Ñolofinwë’s son’s part. Ereinion, who stood next to his father and had never met Fëanáro, simply looked confused. 

Aredhel had made her way to Celegorm and he seemed to be clinging to her, shaking his head in disbelief. 

Arakano, who was near enough to Ñolofinwë for him to hear his son munching, had procured himself popcorn and was splitting it with Celebrimbor, who was watching with a sort of unbridled shock, his jaw halfway to the floor. Ereinion, who had always been rather close to his second cousin, moved to stand beside Tyelpë.

“Are you alright?” He asked, a hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder.

“Your grandmother is dancing with my grandfather,” said Celebrimbor, his tone flat.

“What?” said Ereinion. “But that’s not Lord Mah- oh. Oh.”

“Oh,” agreed Celebrimbor. 

Oh, agreed Ñolofinwë.

***

“You should make your move now, Fëanáro,” Anairë said, just as Makalaurë played the last few notes of the song. 

Fëanáro inhaled deeply, and suddenly he was more nervous than he had ever been in his life.

What if Nerdanel hated him? What if she wished for nothing but his return to the Halls of Mandos? If she would never take him back, after what he had done. 

He would not blame her.

But he looked up and saw his sons, watching him. His grandson. 

_We would much rather have you._

He had to try. 

“If it doesn’t work out,” he told Anairë, and meant every one of his next words, “give my love to Ñolofinwë.” 

“I will,” she replied, kissing his cheek gently. “Now, go talk to your wife.” 

He pushed back his shoulders, brushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear, and began to walk towards Nerdanel. 

She was still in Weo’s arms- barefoot on the grass, her head resting on his chest, tucked underneath his chin. A soft smile graced her face as he kissed the top of her head. 

She was beautiful. 

Her hair was twisted and curled into an intricate bun- newlywed’s braids, he recognised. She had worn them before. Gold was strewn through them, making them shine under the lights. 

Her dress was green like an emerald, and she wore jewelry to match. Some of it was certainly made by his sons- he recognised their work well enough to know. It filled him with pride, to know they made such beautiful things. 

Some of it, however, was not of his sons’ make. He could see her clearly enough to see the bracelet she was wearing, a bit iffy in make, but a single, large bead in the shape of a W rested in the middle.

For Weo.

She really did love him.

Fëanáro froze.

Could he do this to her? Could he tear away her shot at happiness, take away the validity of her marriage to the man she clearly loved? Even now, as he looked at her, he could tell she loved Weo to bits. That she felt safe in his arms. 

Fëanáro’s breath caught in his throat. 

They were in love. They were in love and he could not take that away from her. 

“She looks radiant, doesn’t she?” said a voice that came from beside him. Fëanáro didn’t know who it was. It didn’t matter. 

“She does,” he said. 

As soon as he spoke, Nerdanel’s eyes met his. Her brown eyes, the colour of milk chocolate melting in the sun, dotted with the most beautiful flecks of gold, went wide. 

She pulled away from Weo to stare at him. 

Behind Fëanáro, he heard Maitimo suck in a breath. 

Fëanáro walked towards her slowly. She didn’t move. 

Gently, he took her hands in his, running his thumb over the back of her hand. He smiled at her, unable to help it- how could anyone help smiling when they were faced with the most beautiful woman in the world?- and kissed her cheek. 

“Congratulations, Nerdanel,” he said, and truly, he meant it. No matter how broken his heart may be, no matter the likelihood of him returning to death. As long as she was happy, he would be okay. 

He took one last look, committing the image of the love of his life, happy, to his memory. Then he turned and walked away. 

***

“I’m sorry, Tyelko,” whispered Aredhel, “I know how much you miss him.”

“I just-,” he replied, “I thought maybe, and I know it’s stupid, but maybe when she saw him, she’d remember how happy she was with him, how happy life was when all nine of us were a family. I guess it was too good to be true.” 

Tyelkormo sat down on the floor, and Aredhel joined him, an arm wrapped around his shoulders. Together, they watched as Fëanáro left.

***

“What is he thinking?” Ñolofinwë asked. 

“I…” replied Maitimo, “I don’t know, what in Eru’s name, why is he leaving?” 

There was an unspoken _not again._

***

“That idiot,” hissed Anairë under her breath. 

***

“So much for getting grandfather back,” said Celebrimbor. 

“I always thought,” replied Gil-Galad, “that he’d be more intense a person.” 

“He usually is. I don’t know what happened to him.”

***

“Nerdanel,” began Weo, “who was that?”

She was frozen in place, a hand rising slowly to touch the spot on her cheek where the man that Weo did not know had kissed her. 

When she did turn to look at him, there were tears in her eyes. 

“Weo, I…” Nerdanel said, taking his hand with her free one. “I have to go.”

She squeezed his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

She left him, chasing after the stranger with the dark hair.

***

The night air, away from the heat of people’s bodies, was cool and fresh against Fëanáro’s skin. The stars shone bright in the sky, and he stared up at them, feeling the wind whip in his hair. 

One star shone brighter than all the others, and he laughed harshly. He did not mind Eärendil- he only loathed the object the Mariner carried with him. 

He supposed the Oath was gone, then. 

Fëanáro glared up at the sky.

“Curse that jewel!” he cried, “and all others of its kind! Had the world never known of its existence, had I never dreamed such a thing into life, perhaps then, my family would be hale and whole! Would that it had never existed!” 

He considered picking up a rock and throwing it at the sky. Then he remembered the rock would never reach its intended target. 

He did not notice the footsteps behind him.

A hand touched his and he whipped around. 

“So you were just going to leave again?” Nerdanel hissed at him. 

“What else was I supposed to do?” He replied. “It’s your wedding day.”

“And you’re my husband.”

“You’re in love with Weo. And if that’s the future you want, I won’t stop you.”

“Not even if it means breaking your sons’ hearts?” 

He flinched. 

“I wasn’t supposed to come back in the first place.”

“But you did. It will kill them, you know. To see you leave again.”

“I have died before. They were okay.”

“They became the most notorious family of murderers ever known.”

“Then they came home and found peace. Without me, may I add.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt them to be without their father, that they didn’t miss you more than anything. When Moryo first showed me his little one, he was so proud, but he was also devastated that he wouldn’t be able to introduce you to his baby. When we have family dinners, I see at least one of them look over to your seat, and I see the light leave their eyes when it is empty. And I… I miss you too.”

“If you miss me so badly then why are you—”

“Because I was lonely, Fëanáro! For seven thousand years I’d woken up in _our_ bed, alone! For seven thousand years I’d eaten my meals alone! For seven thousand years I’d missed you and missed you and missed you and when I met Weo suddenly I wasn’t lonely anymore. And you weren’t coming home, everyone said you weren’t coming home, and Weo was in love with me and he tried so hard to get along with the boys, to get along with your side of the family, and maybe I loved him a little bit but it was never as much as I love you!”

Fëanáro froze.

“You love me?”

“Of course I love you, you idiot! I just ran out on my own wedding to come chase after you! I love you to pieces! As soon as I saw you standing there I knew I never wanted to be with anyone who wasn’t you.” 

He had no reply, so he kissed her. And kissed her, and kissed her. 

She kissed him back. 

***

“So… what do we think they’re doing?” asked Findekano, who sat in the middle of the circle the House of Finwë had formed, casually excluding all the other wedding guests, save Mahtan and his wife.

“Arguing,” replied the sons of Fëanor, immediately. 

There were a few chuckles. 

“I hope they get back together,” said Finrod. 

“I don’t. I hope auntie Nerdanel comes to her senses and marries Weo. Fëanáro doesn’t deserve her. Or love. He doesn’t deserve love,” said Galadriel, firmly.

“Screw off,” said Makalaurë, and made a rude gesture at her. 

“Yeah, no one asked you,” said Finduilas, who was a big supporter of love in all forms. 

“Artanis,” scolded Arafinwë, “be kind.”

“I don’t understand why you all like him so much. He’s a bad person.” 

“What part of ‘screw off’, ‘no one asked you’ and ‘be kind’ did you not understand?” said Tyelkormo. 

Galadriel rolled her eyes. Maitimo made a gesture, and the circle of the House of Finwë plus Mahtan and his wife promptly readjusted to exclude her from it. 

“I can feel her glare,” said Finrod, shaking his head. 

“Father’s been dead for seven thousand years,” began Amrod.

“And the first thing she does is talk badly about him,” finished Amras.

“I hold no personal stake in auntie Nerdanel and Fëanáro’s relationship,” said Aegnor, “but I hope they get back together just to spite her.”

Amrod, Amras and Angrod laughed, the rest of the House breaking into smiles. 

“Speaking of spite,” said Maitimo suddenly, “maybe someone should go get Curvo. And Moryo, too, though he has nothing to do with spite.”

“On it,” said Ambarussa, and they left in the opposite direction of their parents. 

“I think I need a drink,” said Ñolofinwë. 

“Me too,” echoed the House of Finwë, plus Mahtan and his wife.

***

“I love you,” Fëanáro whispered against Nerdanel’s hair. “I love you, I love you, I love you. Please don’t marry Weo.”

Nerdanel giggled against his chest. 

“I won’t, my love. I’ll only marry you. Only you.” 

“Yes, marry me. Marry me and only me. Even if we’re already married, marry me again,” he mumbled. 

“I will. I will, yes.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

***

“Curvo!” cried Amrod, running into his brother’s house, “come quickly!”

“What is it?” replied the grouch. 

“It’s… well, I feel like it should be a surprise, but you have to come now!”

“Why?”

“Well, for one, we have reason to believe mother won’t marry Weo.”

“I’m coming.”

***

“Moryo!” Amras whispered into his brother’s ear. “Wake up!”

“Wh—,” said Caranthir, bolting upright. “What’s going on?”

“You have to come with me! Now!” 

“I was sleeping!”

“I don’t care! You have to come!” 

“How did you even get into my house?”

“It doesn’t matter! I’ll tell you later, let’s go!”

“I… hold on.”

Gently, Caranthir woke his wife up. 

“Ilvanë, my love, I’m just going back to mother’s wedding- I presume that is where we are going, Amras- and then I will return.”

“What time is it?” whispered Ilvanë.

“Almost midnight,” replied Amras.

“Why is your brother in our bedroom?” Ilvanë asked.

“Ask me again when I have an answer,” replied Caranthir. He kissed her temple gently, told her he loved her, and got out of bed. 

“Let’s go!” said Amras, all but dragging him out of the house. 

***

“You’re so pretty,” giggled Fëanáro, who seemed drunk on love. “My Nerdanel, the prettiest woman in the world. And the most talented, and the smartest, and the wisest and the kindest and the coolest—.”

“I love you too, Fëanáro.”

“I love you so much.” 

She kissed him again. 

***

By the time they had filled the other two sons of Fëanor in, Curufin looked like he was going to cry. 

He could not be blamed for such emotion, as he was not the only one who felt that way.

***

“Maybe we should go back inside,” said Nerdanel.

“And see the boys!” said Fëanáro, elated suddenly. “Yes! Let’s do that.”

His smile was surreal, brighter than anything she knew. His whole face lit up at the prospect of seeing their sons and, though she already knew how deeply he cared for their sons, it warmed her heart to see how much he loved them. 

The wind blew his dark hair into his face, and gently she reached to tuck the stray strands behind his ear, tracing the dimple that was formed on his cheek with her thumb. 

He looked frightfully young, suddenly. It hit her hard, then, that Ñolofinwë’s great-great-great grandchildren were older now than Fëanáro had been when he died. 

“Why are you giving me that look?” He asked, voice soft. His smile dissipated slightly, and she mourned it. 

“I just…” They could have had so much more time. They could have been together for so much longer. “I really love you, is all.”

“I love you too,” he replied. “In truth, I do not know anymore what I would do without you.”

“Now that I have you back, I feel much the same.”

“Though I know, my love, I will face trials and consequences for… former actions, to say the least, I believe that so long as I have you and our sons by my side, I will be okay.”

She nodded.

“But, for now,” she added, “we are happy.”

“For now we are happy. Now, to the boys! And the rest of my wonderful family!”

“Who are you and what have you done with my Fëanáro?” Nerdanel teased. 

“I _am_ your Fëanáro.”

That smile returned. 

***

Fëanáro smiled when he saw his sons, and let go of Nerdanel’s hand briefly to take them all into his arms. 

“My sons, oh, my sons,” he said, kissing the tops of their heads, which was a feat, considering the seven sons of Fëanor were a great deal taller than Fëanáro himself was.

“Atto,” sobbed Tyelkormo. 

“I missed you so much,” cried Curufin. 

Caranthir sniffled. 

“I love you all,” said Fëanáro, refusing to let go, “and I am so proud of you boys.” 

Maitimo burst into tears. 

“I love you, atto,” he said. 

“I love you too, my Nelyo.” 

By the time they all let go of each other, tears ran down all of their faces. 

“Are you staying?” asked Ambarussa. 

Fëanáro nodded, and delight became the chief emotion inside the circle. 

“Good!” said Celebrimbor, who was making his way through his uncles. 

“Tyelpë!” Fëanáro shouted. 

“Grandfather!” Celebrimbor shouted back, embracing him. 

“Look how tall you’ve gotten! My goodness, the last time I saw you, you were barely at my shoulders!” 

Celebrimbor, now at least a foot and a half taller than his grandfather, laughed. 

“It’s good to see you, grandfather,” he said. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, little one. Though, you’re hardly so little anymore.” 

“Tell him about your forge, Tyelpë,” suggested Curufin with a smile.

“Your forge?” Fëanáro replied, already captivated.

“It’s not that much, really; when I was reembodied I began teaching forgework to other, young ones and reembodied ones who wanted to learn. It’s become, well, I don’t want to sound too haughty-”

“Tyelpë has made himself the reputation of being the single best person for a smith to apprentice under, and his forge is one of the biggest sources of inspiration for any artist,” said a young, dark haired boy, who looked slightly like Aredhel.

“Thank you, Lómion,” replied Celebrimbor, blushing. “I would be, ah, delighted, grandfather, if— when all is settled, of course, if I could show you around.”

“That’s wonderful!” cried Fëanáro, all but radiating pride. “I would love nothing more to see what you have done, how your work has changed and grown. I am sure there have been a great many advancements in our art, so if you would not be opposed, I would be honoured if you would teach me. Truly, there is no one I would rather learn from.”

The praise, coming from the mightiest of the Ñoldor, sufficed to make Celebrimbor red as a tomato.

“I would be honoured, grandfather.”

Fëanáro beamed. 

Next, he turned to Carnistir, who seemed very near tears and was standing straight in his bedclothes, hair messy from sleep and eyes drifting shut. He smiled, though, when he saw his father’s eyes on him. 

“I hear,” he began, taking Carnistir’s shoulders, “that you have recently welcomed a little baby of your own. Congratulations, Moryo, my boy.”

Carnistir beamed.

“I am so excited for you to meet my family, father.”

“Your wife won’t mind too much?” It did worry him- he was certain his reputation had gone downhill very quickly and there would be little doubt of Carnistir’s wife, whom he had never met, having heard rather terrible things about him. 

“No, of course not,” came a light, female voice. “you are my husband’s father and that makes you family. Little else matters. Of course, it would be different if Moryo did not love you, but he speaks so highly of you that I somehow doubt that.”

Carnistir’s face lit up with joy as he beheld the woman who was so clearly his wife. Fëanáro turned around to face her, and found himself met with a smiling young woman, dressed in bedclothes and a too-big sweater, holding a bundle in her arms. 

“What are you doing here?” Carnistir asked, wrapping an arm around her and the baby in her arms, pulling them both close. He pressed a quick kiss to her temple, a soft smile gracing his face. 

“The baby woke up not long after you left, and after that I couldn’t get back to sleep. So, I thought I’d come join the party. It seems I came at the right moment.” 

Gently, Carnistir took the little bundle out of his wife’s arms, cooing down at the bundle in his arms. The baby let out a delighted noise, and a tiny hand raised itself to grab at Carnistir. Laughing, he gave the baby his hand, and the little one promptly grabbed his finger. 

Once the baby had settled, clearly eNámoured with Carnistir’s finger, he looked up, smiling at his wife then at his father. 

“Father, this is my wife, Ilvanë. Ilvanë, meet my father.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ilvanë,” said Fëanáro, offering his hand. 

“Likewise,” said Ilvanë, taking it. He once again noted a firm grip, and smiled. Carnistir, it seemed, had done very well for himself. She was very clearly a Noldo, and even bore some resemblance to Little Laurë, the young boy who had played with Ambarussar, when they were small, and whose sister had married Turukano. 

“And this,” continued Carnistir, “is Athea, father.” 

“Athea!” Fëanáro said, letting go of Ilvanë’s hand to near Carnistir, gazing down at the baby in his son’s arms. “Oh, goodness, isn’t she just perfect?”

“Here, do you want to…” Carnistir handed the bundle to his father as he nodded. 

“Hi there,” Fëanáro cooed at little Athea. “Aren’t you just the sweetest thing in the whole wide world? Ah, Athea, a granddaughter at long last! A blessing unlooked for, and one far more precious than any jewel.”

Athea chose that moment to smile at Fëanáro, and he promptly burst into tears. 

“Every time he sees a baby,” said Nerdanel, rolling her eyes, though her voice was unmistakably fond. 

“I recall you crying, Nerdanel,” began Fëanáro, “when all the other babies in our family were born. And yet, here you are, judging me, when I have little doubt that you cried when this perfect little child, our only granddaughter, may I add, was born.” 

“Ha, ha,” said Nerdanel. “In our family, perhaps! Our sons, yes, our grandchildren, of course. But I was not the one who cried the first time I met every single one of my nieces and nephews.”

Fëanáro gasped. 

“I did no such thing.”

“You cried hardest when Findekano was born, I remember it well.” 

“That never happened.” 

“Oh, Uncle!” cried the now-grown Findekano. “You cried for me? I’m so honoured.” 

Fëanáro looked up from the baby to glare at his nephew. 

“I did not cry when you were born.” 

“He’s right,” interjected Ñolofinwë. “My brother did not cry when my son was born.”

“Thank y-”

“He _wept._ ”

There was uproarious laughter, and Fëanáro shook his head. 

“What shall we do with them, little Athea? They are getting all their history wrong,” he told her. The room seemed to go quiet once more, and gently, Fëanáro pressed a kiss to his granddaughter’s forehead and passed her back to her mother. 

“Ñolofinwë mocks his brother,” said Anairë, joining the conversation, “but I distinctly recall his sobbing when Maitimo was born, so I don’t think there’s any room for it.” 

Ñolofinwë blushed furiously as Maitimo laughed. 

“Now, that I remember!” said Fëanáro. 

“Oh, so you remember me crying for your son but not you crying for mine?” Ñolofinwë asked, eyebrow raised. 

The room went dead silent. 

“Yes,” replied Fëanáro. 

“You are insufferable!”

“Don’t cause a scene, Ñolofinwë.”

“I’ll cause a scene if I please!”

“You please to cause a scene at the joyous reunion of your long-dead brother with his wife, children and grandchildren?”

“It’s also a reunion with the rest of his family, dammit! Your house is not the only part of your family!”

Ñolofinwë took a threatening step forwards, and most of the house of Finwë tensed, ready to intervene as soon as possible. They needn’t have. 

“I know it isn’t, Nolo,” said Fëanáro, quietly. 

Ñolofinwë pulled him into a hug. 

“I missed you, you arse,” he said. 

“Of course you did. I am your older brother, after all,” Fëanáro replied. 

“You’re such a prick.” 

Fëanáro sighed. “I missed you too, Nolo.” 

If they both started crying, no one mentioned it. 

“I’m sorry,” Fëanáro choked out. “I was… I was wrong. And I was cruel. I hope… I hope you can forgive me.” 

“I forgave you a long time ago, Fëanáro. Half brother in blood, but-”

“Full brother in heart. I know. I know, Nolo,” he reassured.

“I love you, you short little jackass.”

“I love you too, you tall fucker.” 

Ñolofinwë laughed. 

Fëanáro smiled, wiping at his eyes furiously. 

“Arafinwë! Findis, Irimë! Come here,” he called. He did, after all, have four more siblings to hug. 

They joined him, and the five of them wrapped their arms around each other. For the first time, they weren’t half siblings, divided by rivalries and dead mothers. They were a family. 

***

“So,” said Fëanáro to Nerdanel, “do you actually want to marry me again? Because you’ve got the whole setup, you’re wearing a wedding dress and both of our families are here.”

Nerdanel seemed to ponder his question for a bit. 

“I’ll feel bad,” she said finally, “Weo’s entire family came, and I already left him at the altar. I feel like it would be wrong of me, to take the wedding we planned together and marry someone else at it.” 

Fëanáro nodded. 

“You are very wise.”

“That’s not to say, of course, that I don’t wish to renew our vows at all. Sometime soon, we will. It shouldn’t be that hard, to round everyone up again.”

“Very well. We’ll begin making plans sometime soon, then?”

“Of course.”

For now, Fëanáro contented himself with kissing the woman who was both his wife and bride-to-be. 

***

“Nerdanel,” he whispered, weeks later. They lay in their bed, his arm wrapped around her. 

“Yes?” She replied, drowsy from sleep.

He planted a gentle kiss on her shoulder, then another, tracing the freckles on the skin with his lips. Then, suddenly, he paused in his kisses, tilting his head so he could meet her eyes.

“Do you regret not marrying Weo?” 

She stilled, and made no answer for what was probably only a few seconds, but, to Fëanáro, felt like an agonizing eternity. 

“It’s okay if you do,” he continued. “I know my arrival was unexpected, and that you were very, very close to completely marrying him. I just wonder… in hindsight, if you could tell that past version of you what you should have done that night… would you still have chosen me?”

She twisted in his arms, a hand coming to rest on his cheek. 

“Yes,” she answered. “I would still marry you. If I could go back to my wedding night to Weo now, I would still marry you. Even if I could go back to our own wedding, before the Sun, and know everything that would come of our marriage- all the heartache, all the pain, the betrayal, the loss. I would marry you still.” 

He curled into her side, and exhaled. Relief flooded him, and any tense muscles relaxed. He had asked the question just to know, but he had not realised he was dreading the answer. 

“Why do you ask, my love? Surely you know my heart is yours,” she continued, curious. 

“And mine, yours. I just… I had a nightmare, you see. And I… well, now I simply wonder if… if deep down, you thought you had made a mistake. If you miss him terribly.”

“Oh, my Fëanáro.” she said, and there was something so comforting, so soothing, about her voice. “I love you. Whatever song sang me into being also sang that I would love you. You have nothing to fear on that front. Besides, truth be told, I miss him very little, to tell you the truth. It’s terrible, I know. But I simply… I think he was a friend that I tried to pretend was more and obviously it did not work out. Besides, I am sure we will see him again in the coming years.”

“Why do you say that?” It was his turn to be curious.

“Well, now that you’ve introduced Rína to Ereinion… I have reason to think there will be a wedding coming up.”

Fëanáro laughed. 

“I should be a matchmaker! I would be terrible at it, but every once in a while, I like to think I would make a good match.”

Nerdanel laughed in reply. 

“Ah, yes. Fëanáro, greatest smith among the Eldar, husband to Nerdanel the Wise, turned romantic matchmaker. What a scandal that would be!”

“I’d probably do it, so long as I had your support. I’ve been through a few scandals- one more won’t hurt.”

“I,” began Nerdanel, shaking her head, “would much rather you stay here, in bed, and remain perfectly and utterly devoted to me and only me.” 

“That, my love,” he replied, and paused to resume the kisses he had been laying on her, “sounds like an absolutely excellent idea. I do not know what I was thinking- becoming a matchmaker! Being your husband is a profession that interests me a great deal more.” 

“Hm,” said Nerdanel, “and I believe you would be much better suited to being my husband than you would be to matchmaking. In fact, I think the proof is right here.” 

Fëanáro smiled a wicked smile, and in one smooth movement, he captured her lips. There was no doubt that he would be the most devoted husband in Aman. 

***

Manwë Sulimo, relieved, clapped his brother Námo on the back, and told him not to slip up again. 

Námo grumbled at Manwë until he left, and proceeded to enjoy some peace and quiet at long last.

**Author's Note:**

> (a) i have the utmost respect for people who study butterflies  
> (b) there were supposed to be more scenes but i hit 10k and i was like yeah i'm not writing more,,, sorry  
> (c) galadriel scared me as a kid and ive never gotten over it so,,,, thats Why i was mean to her. as an outlet for my ten year old self's fear  
> (d) this is the longest fic ive ever written, hope u enjoyed!


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